


and every breath's a moment

by amfiguree



Series: Not the Boy Who Lived [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron's an auror, and Harry isn't. Ron gets sent off to do dangerous things, and Harry's never been very good at patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and every breath's a moment

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of weasley_fest on livejournal, for solstice_muse.

  
  
  


The thing is -- the thing of it is, is that Ron's a bit of a scatterbrain.  
  
He's brilliant at his job, at being an Auror, at finding the details in things and sorting them out till they make sense in his head, but he's useless at mostly everything else. Harry's learnt that, over the past few years. He's learning that still, now that he's been tasked with unpacking about a hundred of haphazardly labeled boxes housing all of Ron's twenty-one years' worth of possessions. It barely fits in their new flat - a little, practical thing not far from Diagon Alley - but Ron never takes that kind of thing into account.  
  
So it shouldn't be a surprise, really, that Harry doesn't see an owl sitting on one of the still-unopened boxes surrounding his bed when he wakes up that morning. Ron's been regular as clockwork with his letters, remembered to write once every three days for the past two weeks he's been gone, so Harry won't grudge him one miss.  
  
He won't, he tells himself, as he readies his gear and his uniform and apparates out of his kitchen.  
  
He won't, he repeats firmly, as he waves an apologetic, embarrassed hand at Mrs Weasley, and re-apparates out of her backyard to the Quidditch field.  
  
Despite his promises, practice is a mess, and his lack of focus keeps the entire team out on the field an hour longer than usual. There are no complaints - no _verbal_ complaints - but Harry has to duck more than his fair share of well-aimed bludgers to his head during the game. After it's over, Wood pulls him aside, claps him firmly on the back, and says, "You all right there, Potter?"  
  
Harry gives nothing but a curt nod in reply, but his captain persists. "Have you heard from Weasley?" he asks, eyes keen.  
  
Harry brushes the concern off with a shrug and a dismissive wave of the hand.  
  
"Well, buck up, yeah?" Wood tells him, sharply. "We've got a good shot at the World Cup this year, and we're not doing it with you playing like that, mate."  
  
And that's that.  
  
At least until Harry stumbles into the flat, body aching from all the exertion, and there's still no sign of an official Ministry Owl - or any other owl. Harry clenches his jaw, and goes to take a shower before he decides to fling his Quidditch gear into the fire.  
  
There's a tap at the window as Harry towels off his hair, and he startles. He lifts his head carefully, not too quick, even less eager, wondering if he has spare change for the bird--and looks up to see Sirius grinning at him through the glass.  
  
"There was a scuffle in Diagon Alley," Remus explains, once Harry opens the door. "We thought we’d drop in."  
  
Harry smiles, but he catches himself in the midst of looking over their shoulders, like he expects to see something else. He shakes himself. It's really not that surprising, Ron forgetting to post a note. Which is why Harry doesn't mention the lack of one now, as he invites his godparents in and makes them all a pot of tea, not to them, or to Wood, or to the Weasleys.  
  
It's not surprising at all.  
  
  


 

It's been six days now.

The first letter had come three weeks ago, and another had followed faithfully every three days after. But now? Now.

Six days with no word.

Six _days_.

For every hour that passes, every hour he looks out the window and doesn't see a Ministry Owl with the post, Harry's throat closes up, panic setting in like a noose around his neck, so tight he can't bloody breathe past it.

He remembers Ron packing his bag, just the barest of essentials. His toothbrush, clothes, some parchment. "It's all _right_ , Harry," he'd laughed, once he'd seen the expression on Harry's face. "It's so simple even I can't muck it up. I'll be back so quickly you won't even notice I was gone."

"I doubt that," Harry muttered darkly. He'd been tempted to ask why, if this was the simple re-con job Ron had repeatedly assured him it was, Moody was insisting that Ron be a part of the team, especially when Ron had informed him months earlier that this was the weekend he and Harry would be moving in together. "These boxes won’t move themselves, Ron."

"I'd be rather worried if they did," Ron replied, with a laugh, and Harry, despite it all, had caught himself on the cusp of a smile.

The boxes hadn’t, of course, but Harry's been working through them slowly and methodically, finding a place in their home for everything that each new box unveils. Each time he slits a box open, he thinks, _Ron's supposed to do this_. But there'd been that disturbance up north, people going missing and muggle newspapers reporting Big Foot sightings, and the Ministry had to take care of things, quash the rumours that Voldemort was about to rise yet again.

Still, Neville's been on edge for weeks, refusing to read the Daily Prophet and its headlines about the Boy-Who-Lived and his purported legacy. Remus, whenever he thinks Sirius isn't looking, has been walking around with a calculative frown on his face, the same expression he used to wear when he'd been asked to give Neville extra DADA lessons in their Fourth year, and if Harry had been less focused on Ron's return, he might have demanded an explanation.

Suddenly, the fire crackles and bursts into life, and Harry starts as Mrs Weasley appears in the fireplace. "Harry!" she calls, her voice too shrill, strained with panic. "Harry!"

"Mrs Weasley?" Harry comes to the fire immediately, concern twisting like a white, hot knife in his stomach.

"Oh, _Harry_ , thank goodness!" She's almost sobbing now, her breath catching in her throat when she pauses to regain composure. "Harry, please, have you heard from Ron today? He's written you, hasn't he?"

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "Mrs Weasley," he tries.

" _Has he written you?_ " she demands, in the tone of voice he recognizes only from her dealings with Fred and George's worst pranks.

"No," he shakes his head. "No, not for six days."

Mrs Weasley simply looks at him, and for a moment, Harry's afraid she's stopped breathing. Then she chokes on a sob, and vanishes entirely.

Harry's grip tightens on his wand, and the lights flicker behind him as he apparates out of the house.

When he storms into the Burrow, minutes later, Percy's the only one there to greet him, sorting through a stack of letters. The house is unnaturally quiet, so still that he can hear Mrs Weasley in the kitchen, face pressed into Mr. Weasley's robes to muffle her sobs. "What's going on?" Harry demands.

Percy looks up at him, adjusts his spectacles. "There's been a report," he tells Harry, very calmly. "Apparently, the Ministry hasn't heard from Ron's patrol in four days, which might mean that certain events have spiraled out of control, and--"

"Certain events?" Harry repeats, in disbelief. "There was a fucking giant mutiny happening when they disappeared, Percy! What do they mean, _certain events_?"

Percy looks at Harry for a long moment, before his expression crumples and he shakes his head helplessly. His hands are shaking. "Harry. They found two bodies."

 

 

Harry's spent the last three nights at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley had insisted, once she'd pulled herself together, and Harry hadn't protested. "It's all right, love," she'd told him, her eyes red and her hand warm on his cheek. "Stay. We'll wait for Ron's letters together."

The waiting is putting a strain on them all. Both Percy and Arthur are keeping their ears to the ground at the office, keeping later and later hours, hoping for a scrap of news, any news, and putting off the journey home to avoid having to disappoint the six hopeful faces that greet them, without fail, at the door.

Mrs. Weasley's been wringing her wrists whenever there isn't a chore to keep her busy, and she's taken to doing the twins' laundry by hand. Both Bill and Charlie have popped in the fireplace every few hours since the news broke to see if there's been any update. Each time, Mrs. Weasley says, "We'll let you know if we hear anything, loves," and every four hours, their heads are back in the fireplace.

Harry refuses to let them come back, though. "There's nothing to fuss over," he repeats, over and over, face pinched and drawn. Mrs. Weasley looks like she might protest, once or twice, but she never does, simply touches a hand to Harry's and offers to brew a pot of tea. It's all Harry's been able to keep down and the caffeine is a welcome touch, since he's spent each night pacing the Burrow, looking out the window like an owl will appear if he wills it hard enough.

Ginny's taken to straying into the garden, grabbing unsuspecting gnomes and hurtling them out of the yard every chance she gets. Her cheeks are as red as her hair, and Harry can never tell if it's from exertion or something else. He joins her, sometimes for hours at a time, and eventually, when they run out of gnomes, Ginny decides to redo the garden entirely.

Remus checks in when he can, and Sirius says, "You _had_ to pick the Auror," when they're out of earshot. He earns a glare of disapproval from Remus and an eyeroll from Harry, but they know that that's just Sirius' way of saying, _I'm worried_ and _be strong, Harry, it'll be all right_. Ron's like a second adopted son.

Harry's even tried scrying - _scrying_ , Merlin! - and he's never even passed a Divination class. He doesn't expect to find anything, but he hopes. He hopes, even though each time he turns up empty handed.

He goes home the fourth night, after Fred and George trick him into eating a handful of their Translation Toffees. He hears everything in French for two hours, and he spends that time worrying that he'll miss news about Ron. The twins have played pranks on every one, heedless of Mrs. Weasley's threats and Mr. Weasley's displeasure, getting louder and more obnoxious to make up for the fact that they've never been faced with anything like this. None of them have.

They've only had to deal with ripples before, what little aftereffects there'd been after Neville had defeated Voldemort in their fifth year. This tidal wave has taken them all by surprise, knocked them completely off their feet.

They're fighting, but none of them know if they can stay afloat in these deep waters.

 

 

Harry stumbles out of the fireplace in his flat a little later, just managing to stay upright as he rubs the fatigue from his eyes. Then the floor shifts beneath him, and he trips. He tenses as he goes down, fumbling for his wand even as he hits the floor.

He's just managed to wrap his fingers around it when it's forcibly pulled out of his reach. Harry struggles, then, pushing himself up on an elbow as he lashes out with his leg and there's a terse swell of relief in his stomach when he feels it connect. He lets out a quiet breath when he hears something clatter, then roll across the floor.

His attacker growls, and then they’re fighting, fists and knees in place of their discarded wands. It's over in a matter of seconds; a blow to the cheek, a knee to his side, an arm shoved over his throat before he can even say, "accio." Another quick maneuver, and Harry's swallowing a gasp as he's shoved back onto the floor. His lungs begin to burn. His hands are jerked over his head. A dead weight settles over his stomach. _Christ_. There's someone in the bloody _house_ , here, now, holding him down. Harry starts to panic in earnest, his heart thrashing wildly in his chest as the surge of adrenaline fades.

"Lumos," the stranger whispers, and Harry shuts his eyes against the sudden light. He should have said that first, should have at least done that, so he could see -- "Harry?"

Suddenly, Harry can't get his eyes open fast enough, and then there's Ron, all six foot three of him, his hair a long, knotty mess, his robes torn, dark smudges under his eyes, and an even darker bruise along his collarbone.

Harry's never seen a more welcome sight in his life.

Ron rears back, eyes wide, and pushes himself off Harry with no small amount of effort. Harry sits up, and Ron winces, lifting his hand to finger the nasty bruise already forming over Harry's throat. His body is a walking definition of exhaustion, weariness written into the slump of his shoulders, the crack in his voice when he murmurs, "sorry, Merlin, I'm sorry," without trying to push himself upright.

Harry stares at him, mouth completely dry. "You should be," he hears himself say.

Ron lets out a startled little laugh as his fingers slip just under the fabric of Harry's robe. "You're still shit at hand-to-hand combat."

The contact _burns_ , sears right through Harry's nerves so he's standing before he even knows it, bunching Ron's robes in his fists and hauling him to his feet. "Harry," Ron exhales--

But Harry crushes their mouths together before he can finish, backing Ron into a wall. Ron winces, and their teeth click, leaving a bruised lower lip. Then there's precious little but warmth and tongue and Ron's harsh breaths, one after another, stuttering broken apologies into their kiss.

"Stupid _git_ ," Harry snarls, fiercely, when they break apart for air, but his grip on Ron remains rigid. He shoves Ron into the wall again, once, twice, a third time for good measure. "Don't you do that again."

"Harry--"

"Don't," Harry repeats, heat and need and fear curling in his voice like the word is a spell that can bind them both. "Don't you bloody well _dare_."

"Harry," Ron whispers, and Harry hears the wonder in his voice. His palm flits up, fitting against Harry's cheek, and Harry leans into it for a brief moment, feeling his anger dwindle into concern. Relief. He's a stubborn bastard, ill accustomed to showing his emotions like this, to giving in to the temptation of saying too much. "I'm all right," Ron swears, quietly.

Harry looks at him, then kisses him again, hard and fast, fingers still clenched in a tight fist over his chest. "I'm not quite done unpacking," is all he says in reply.

Ron looks at him, half-wary, unsure of what to expect.

Harry tips his head off, brushes one more kiss to Ron's jaw. "But the bedroom's finished, and you haven't seen it yet."

Ron's fond laughter warms him, right down to his fingertips.

 

 

It's been a month since he's touched Ron like this. A month since he's felt Ron's dark, intense gaze burn his skin, since they've shared the same air, since he's known the heat of Ron's mouth and the hard, angled plane of his body, pressed up against his own in the dark.

His hands move of their own volition, relearning the lines of Ron's body. Over the valleys between his knuckles, then his wrist, the curve of his elbow. He counts one new scar, running thin along the inside of Ron's arm. After years of practice, he knows not to ask, knows Ron can't yet tell him, so he keeps his question behind his lips, presses those to the scar instead.

Tomorrow, he'll need to know about all of it. How it happened, and why. If it'll happen again. But that can wait. All of it. He doesn't want any of that to be important now; he doesn't think he can take hearing it. All that should matter is that they're both here, lying in their bed, in their home, for the first time.

Their robes have long since been abandoned on the floor, and in the faint moonlight he can see the freckles across Ron's face. He counts a few more than there used to be, and he brushes the pad of his thumb over Ron's cheek, light and brief, before kissing the trail of freckles on Ron's shoulder.

"Harry," Ron murmurs, and something in Ron's voice gives Harry pause, makes him look up. Ron's eyes are hooded, his expression terse, and he shakes his head, his thighs creeping up around Harry's waist, ankles hooking around Harry's back. "Can't. I can't wait. Not tonight. Please, not tonight."

Harry swallows hard, but he nods. He doesn’t need to ask to know. He slips a hand between them, careful and precise, and Ron arches up off the bed. So ready, so _ready_ , that heat flares in Harry's stomach, sparks all the way up his spine.

Ron wraps a hand around the back of his neck, reeling him in for another long kiss, and Harry's hand works in tandem, taking his cues from the quiet noises Ron is making, the drawn-out breaths, the set of his shoulders.

But Ron reads him just as well, and he slips his fingers between his lips when Harry's least expecting it, and the rhythm Harry'd picked up stutters, almost to a stop. His fingers clench in the sheets, a sudden wave of want knocking him clear off-kilter. "Okay?" he rasps, voice low and whiskey-smooth, scraping Harry's nerves raw.

Harry nods, and then Ron's fingers are inside him, one, two, knuckle-deep. Ron pushes, again, and swallows Harry's sharp exhale with his lips. Pull and push, a third finger in, and then Harry's making a low, keening noise he barely recognizes as his own, pressing back into Ron, heat exploding in every nerve in his body.

They find their rhythm easily; a month isn't long enough to forget this, isn't long enough to forget the sounds Ron makes or the way the fit together, doesn't come close, and it's barely any time at all before he's leaning down to meet Ron's mouth with his own, whispering, "now, _now_ , bloody fucking hell, Ron, _now_."

Ron nods, choking back a sound, and Harry spreads himself wider, shifts to find the right angle, and then Ron's inside him, and Harry forces a breath past the pain, going entirely rigid for a second, before he moves, slow, slow, slower still, and then -- oh, _Merlin_ , he'll _never_ forget what this feels like.

"Harry," Ron gasps, eyes shut tight and his fingers clenched in the sheets, straining with the effort to keep still.

And yet, Harry keeps his own pace, achingly slow, till he's so close to Ron that they're hip-to-hip. He presses a hand to Ron's stomach, feels the muscles there coiled tense, and Ron hisses at the touch, arcs up like he can't imagine doing anything else.

Harry _burns_ , pulls away and comes right back, so fast and desperate that a dizzying darkness steals his vision for a moment, and only Ron's low groan drags him back. Harry moves again, and this time Ron surges up to greet him, and Harry's breath catches in his throat. Again, and this time Ron all but tears him down for another kiss.

"Harry," Ron pants, before his head falls back against the pillows, his mouth wet and bruised. "Show me. Show me what you want." Harry's throat is tight as Ron tangles their fingers together, his palm hot against the back of Ron's hand. " _Please_."

Harry's heartbeat is like thunder in his own ears as he watches his fingers, lapping over Ron's, watches Ron work on him with his large, callused palm, quick and steady and exactly the way he knows Harry wants it. Harry's breathing hard, erratic, trying to remember that he needs to keep _moving_ , pleasure lying at each end of the spectrum, and Ron's looking up at him like he knows what Harry's thinking, like his gaze alone can send liquid heat through Harry's veins, and--

"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!"

Ron flies up, taking Harry with him, and Harry almost chokes on a moan as his eyes roll back. Bloody _hell_. His hands are hot on Ron's skin, and he can feel Ron's rapidfire pulse try to beat its way out of his chest. He tries to stop, _wants_ to stop, but it's too late, Ron moves again and he's already sinking into it, shaking so hard he can barely hold himself up, voice breaking as he bites out, "Merlin, Ron," and flashes of white dance before his closed eyelids.

Having Mrs Weasley's voice ringing throughout the house while he pushes his hips into Ron's hand is the single, most humiliating experience of his life.

"YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE BEEN WORRIED _SICK_ ," she roars.

Ron makes as if to get out of bed, then, but Harry makes another helpless, needy sound at the motion, and then Ron goes still, tight as a bowstring, fingers digging into Harry's back as he presses his mouth to Harry's throat, hiding his own low groan. Harry can feel his thighs tighten around his waist, once, twice.

"AND YOU DON'T HAVE THE DECENCY TO COME HOME TO LET US KNOW YOU'RE ALL RIGHT!"

They collapse on top of each other, a boneless heap of limbs, and the howler flies even closer to their bed, hovering just in front of Ron.

"YOUR FATHER AND I HAVE WORKED HARD TO KEEP THIS FAMILY GOING, AND SO HELP ME, YOU WILL BE AT THE BURROW TOMORROW TO THANK US FOR IT! HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?"

The howler lingers for a moment longer, as if waiting for an answer, before it shreds itself and falls to the floor. Ron doesn't speak, and when he turns to Harry, he's pale under his freckles. They stare at each other before breaking into a quiet laugh, exhausted and spent and scared out of their wits, and Ron says, "Nothing scarier'n Mum's howlers."

Harry's expression tightens, then, and he shakes his head. He can think of several things far more terrifying and sinister in intent. He leans their foreheads together, brushes his mouth over Ron's, gently, slowly. He counts Ron's heartbeat, and breathes in between.

He'll remember this moment, later, every day he forgets to be thankful that they're both here together.


End file.
